


this city is contagious

by izzybusiness



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness
Summary: “You’re living with Veronica,” Jellybean repeats, incredulous. Jughead closes his eyes, wills for her to stop saying it. “You’re living with your best friend’s ex-girlfriend.Yourex-girlfriend’s best friend.”“I think I know how we all relate to each other, thanks,” he snaps irritably, then immediately feels bad. It’s not his sister’s fault that his life is a total mess.There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Then Jellybean says, “That’s foul, bro.”Jughead hangs up on her.





	1. the perks of being a wallflower

New York in February is the worst. 

He likes the city well enough, likes the way the streets are never empty and the lights all around him are never dim, even when the sun sinks into the horizon and blankets the surrounding roads in frost, a cool, bitter chill that cuts through the air. He likes the way the city hums and breathes, bursting with life and sound and fullness at all hours of the night. 

But the perpetual cold is really starting to get to him.

College is a little more predictable than he thought it would be; a little less cliché than all those teen dramas made it seem, and while he’s ditched the beanie, there’s still nothing he can do about his name. 

He likes to think he deals with all the awkward pauses and the polite smiles and the far too many variations of, _Is that really what your parents call you?_ that are thrown his way with a little more finesse than he did in high school. 

Translation: he says, “Yup, it’s written on my birth certificate and everything,” with a grimace instead of an outright scowl.

Due to the intervention of whatever benevolent deity is watching over him, Jughead manages to score a single room. The heating is wonky, the walls are thin, and it’s approximately the size of a box, but it’s still a space that’s all his, a place where he can exist in his own mess after sharing in Archie’s for so long.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, man,” Archie says to him. They make it a point to talk on the phone at least once every two weeks. “I swear Jeremy’s going to kill me in my sleep this time.”

“I lived with you for almost a year, Arch,” Jughead points out, like Archie needs any reminding. “You’re kind of a slob.” This is a gross, gross understatement. He’s pretty sure that their pile of dirty laundry had taken a life of its own at one point.

Archie laughs in response, and Jughead feels himself laughing along with him. For a second, it’s almost like they’re back in Archie’s bedroom, two feet of space between them instead of two thousand miles. 

He moved back in with his mom and Jellybean at the beginning of their junior year, a few months after his dad was arrested. Even then, even within the confines of his old room inside his old house, something in him will always consider Archie’s bedroom as the closest thing he has to a home.

“Hey, how’s your novel going?” Archie asks him. Jughead likes to pretend he can hear the crash of the ocean waves from his end of the line, even though he knows Archie’s only sitting in his dorm room, guitar on the bed and his desk scattered with sheets of music.

Jughead’s own desk is depressingly bare: a stack of books in the corner, spines worn thin from frequent use, and his laptop in the middle, screen opened up to a half-filled Word document, the blinking cursor staring at him mockingly from across the room. 

“Slow going, huh?” Archie says, sympathetic, after a minute of pained silence.

He opens his mouth to tell Archie that it’s fine, that it’s normal, that he’s read Kafka’s diaries enough times to know that the guy struggled to write a sentence on a good day, and look how he turned out. Instead, “Nothing feels right here,” comes out of it.

Archie says, “Um,” and Jughead pauses, blinks. Well. He definitely hadn’t been expecting that.

“It’s just that—” Jughead rushes on, trying to piece it all together before he loses his train of thought. It’s like a dam breaking, everything pouring into him at once. “I guess I thought being here would make me different somehow.”

The thing is, Jughead wasn’t exactly surprised when the world’s most amicable breakup failed to produce anything of interest. But he is a little put off by the fact that the city that had inspired an entire generation of writers wasn’t doing the same for him.

“Maybe I’m just homesick,” he says, partly to break the silence on the other end, and mostly to make sure that Archie hasn’t fallen over and died due to the sudden emotional turn. He’s never been the best at dealing with them. 

“Yeah, I miss it, too, sometimes,” Archie replies, though Jughead can tell he doesn’t really mean it. Archie is every bit as big and as bright in Berkeley as he was back in high school, the added glow from finally being able to do what he loves only adding fuel to the fire.

Jughead hums, wishes he could tell Archie that the homesickness isn’t for Riverdale, not really. He’s tired of all the pretending, misses the days when he knew who he was and it all meant something else entirely.

“Speaking of people from back home,” Archie says suddenly, voice bright. “Ronnie’s actually—”

“Ugh,” Jughead instantly responds, cutting him off. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you whine about your ex-girlfriend.” He’d played the role of the supportive best friend for weeks after their breakup, until even Mr. Andrews threatened to throw Archie out if he didn’t stop singing Norah Jones.

“Fuck off,” Archie says, laughing. “No, I was only gonna—” There’s a crash from his end of the line, and then Archie quickly adds, “Crap. Gotta go, Jeremy’s back. I’ll talk to you soon, Jug.”

“Bye,” Jughead says to the dial tone.

He leans back against his pillows, watches the shadows move along his ceiling. The only light source coming in is from his still-open, still-untouched laptop sitting in the middle of his desk, and this makes him think of the days of Jason Blossom, when words came to him so easily that he was almost afraid they’d never stop.

He sighs, shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, flicks his table lamp on. He’s got a fifty-page reading on Faulkner for his first class tomorrow, so he grabs that and gets to work.

—

By the time March rolls around, Jughead is fresh out of ideas and slowly running out of hope. His Comparative Literature professor, who is pretty much the closest thing he has to a mentor here, tells him to check out the screenwriting courses offered at Tisch for a change of scenery.

Translation: Jughead should devote his energy into doing something productive instead of hanging around his office after class hours.

Jughead’s always been a reader, has always used books as a means of escaping the drudgery of everyday life. But even he has to admit that if he reads _Death of a Salesman_ one more time, he’s going to go insane.

He’s walking out of the main building, tucking the brightly colored pamphlet he’d picked up into his back pocket, when there’s a gust of wind, something that smells vaguely of home, and he looks up and finds himself meeting a very sharp, very recognizable gaze.

“Well, if it isn’t Jughead Jones,” Veronica says, and Jughead’s struck by how familiar everything is about her, from the way she moves down to her smile, like she knows something he doesn’t. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the hat.”

“Veronica, always a pleasure,” he drawls back, exaggerated, like they’re in some Golden Age movie. He’s always liked looking at his life filtered through the lens of film camera. “I almost didn’t see you without the five-inch heels,” he says, glancing down at her sturdy-looking, albeit probably designer, boots.

“Please,” Veronica says, playing along with him. She flicks her hand out, airy and dismissive. “This is New York. All that walking in stilettos? No, thank you.”

Despite the harsh weather, he grins and she returns the gesture, and they’re suddenly back in the real world, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, the air turning to ice all around them. “What are you doing here?”

Veronica arches a brow. “I’m surprised Archie hasn’t told you. I have it on good authority that the two of you talk almost every week.”

Oh. So that’s what Archie had been trying to tell him. “You keeping tabs on us now?” 

Veronica rolls her eyes. “More like Archie told Val who told Betty who told Kevin who told me.” She pauses, cocks her head to one side, seeming thoughtful. “And if that doesn’t accurately sum up life in a small town, I don’t know what does.”

“I’m flattered to have finally made it onto the Riverdale grapevine,” he deadpans. 

There’s a sudden blast of freezing wind that slices through the air, and Jughead crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to stop his teeth from chattering. “I hate the cold,” he mutters.

Veronica shrugs. “It’s never bothered me.” 

“Of course it doesn’t, Elsa,” Jughead shoots back, and three years ago there would have been an undercurrent of malice to his tone, a careful orchestrating of words designed to cut deep.

“Come on, Olaf,” Veronica says, ignoring Jughead’s indignant noise of protest at being compared to a cartoon snowman. “I’ll buy you a burger and tell you all about it if you’re still interested.”

He’s not sure what compels him to follow her, because God knows that he and Veronica had never really been friends back in Riverdale. Maybe it’s the sheer relief of finding a familiar face in the middle of such a big place, that bit of home he’d been unconsciously searching for.

Maybe it’s the unexpected ease of their interaction, like sliding back into a dynamic he hadn’t known existed. He idly wonders if this is what they could have been like all the time, if they had just let go of their pride early on and learned to coexist.

Or maybe it’s the promise of free food, because let it never be said that Jughead Jones is the kind of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when it comes in the form of burgers.

—

The last time Jughead sees Veronica is at their high school graduation party, graciously hosted by the Blossoms at Thorn Hill.

The mansion is packed with people, and Jughead stands alone at the back, nursing a beer and watching the crowd like the wallflower he is. Archie’s drunk as usual, holding court in the middle of the floor, oblivious to Cheryl’s rather overt come-ons. Betty’s dancing with Reggie, laughing as he spins her around, her skirt billowing up behind her as she moves.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” a voice from beside him quips, and then Veronica’s standing next to him, a plastic cup in her hand, gaze trained on the room.

“Sulking because Archie is over there being hit on by Cheryl?” Jughead counters, and it’s only slightly sarcastic. The two of them have toned down considerably over the years, and while they aren’t exactly friends, they’re also a hell of a lot more civil than they used to be.

Veronica snorts, shaking her head in amusement as they watch Cheryl try and drag a confused Archie out onto the dance floor. “She can have him,” she says, eyes glittering with mirth. “This is the most fun I’ve had all night.”

“I guess compared to Elton John’s after-party, this _is_ pretty lame,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, and Veronica actually laughs, takes a sip from her drink.

He and Veronica have always been in each other’s orbits, on each other’s radars, because of the people they were dating. But after he and Betty had broken up, with Archie and Veronica following suit a week later, there wasn’t much reason for them to keep seeing each other.

“I think I’ll miss this,” she says suddenly, sweeping a hand around the room like she owns it. “I’ll miss everything.” She finally looks up at him, dark eyes boring into his own. “I might even miss you, Forsythe Pendleton.”

“I’m so touched, seriously,” he drawls, putting a hand over his heart. But Veronica’s still staring at him, watching him carefully, and for one wild, furious second, Jughead thinks she’s about to ask him to dance.

To make matters worse, for one wild, furious second, Jughead thinks he might actually say yes if she does.

But she doesn’t. “I’ll see you around, Jughead,” Veronica says, perfectly painted lips curving into an enigmatic smile, like he’s just missed the punchline of an inside joke.

She disappears into the crowd, heels clacking against the marble floor as she walks away, and Jughead tells himself that he’s not disappointed, that he couldn’t care less about Veronica Lodge, not even a little bit.

—

Veronica brings him to a Shake Shack after he makes the mistake of admitting he’s never tried it.

“What do you mean you’ve never tried it?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips and staring at him accusingly, like he’s just committed some kind of felony. They’re waiting at the crosswalk headed towards Madison Square Park, where she claims the original branch is located. “It’s practically an American rite of passage.”

Jughead scoffs, then remembers that he did once refer to the closing of the Twilight Drive-In as the final nail on the coffin of the American dream, so he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on as far as dramatics are concerned. 

“I’m surprised you like it,” he admits. “It’s a little bit…” He trails off, flaps his hand out in an attempt to find the right word.

But Veronica just goes ahead and says it for him. “Plebeian?” she supplies, grins slightly. She flicks her hair out, gaze trained on the road in front of them. “I shudder to think of the kind of lifestyle you assume I live here,” she says, and Jughead rightfully shuts up.

“It’s not exactly Pop’s,” she tells him once they’ve taken their place in line. There’s an employee passing out menus for those waiting, and she grabs one and hands it over to him. “But the shakes are even better.”

“I’ll believe that when I’ve tried one,” he replies, and Veronica smirks at him. Challenge accepted.

Veronica orders him something called a black and white shake, along with every kind of burger on the menu. When they’ve finally settled down on one of the steel picnic tables set up around the stall, she pushes the plastic cup towards him, eyes flashing.

Despite his best efforts, Jughead eventually concedes that she’s right. The burgers have nothing on Pop’s originals, but the shakes are pretty spectacular. Jughead drains the last of his own in one quick slurp, then finishes off the rest of Veronica’s while she watches, amused.

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing in Tisch?” he finally asks once he’s polished off two burgers. “I thought you were at Cornell, making a head start on eventual world domination.”

“Let’s just say the Ivy League life was not for me,” she says, makes a face like she’s remembering something particularly awful. “Reminded me too much of my old self,” she finally admits in response to Jughead’s raised eyebrow.

He tries to reconcile his image of Veronica, with her expensive clothes and flashy cars, with anything other than a prestigious, traditional university and fails. “So what are you taking up now?”

But Veronica just meets his confused gaze, leans back in her seat and crosses her arms, tells him, “Photography,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When Jughead doesn’t immediately respond, too properly stunned into silence, Veronica smirks again, shrugs. “I like capturing beauty and telling other people what to do,” she says, pops a fry in her mouth. “Seems like it’d be a no-brainer to me.”

Despite himself, Jughead nods. Touché.

“What about you?” she asks, turning the tables on him. Then she pauses, drums her fingers against the tabletop. “No, wait, let me guess. English major. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” Jughead grumbles, and Veronica grins triumphantly. “I’m thinking about minoring in film. But I need to wait until next year and I don’t know if my scholarship will cover it.”

“I know the department head,” Veronica says. “I can get you in touch with him. I’m sure he’d be able to help you out.”

“That—that would be great,” Jughead says, even now unused to having people do things for him. He swallows thickly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Veronica says, dismissive. She’s peering around the park, watching leaves fall onto the passerby below. “Anything for a friend, right?”

Three years ago, hell, even a year ago, Jughead wouldn’t have been caught dead spending time with Veronica Lodge. But considering the fact that they’ve just spent the last few hours _talking_ , like they’ve never glared at each other from across a booth, like they’ve never been anything other than almost-acquaintances, he thinks her assessment might be a fair one at this point.

“Right,” he echoes, and Veronica meets his smile with one of her own.

—

Jughead pushes against the glass door and hurries into the welcome warmness of the shop, the smell of roasting coffee and cinnamon buns drifting through the air. Veronica’s already at their usual table, the last booth nearest the back.

“You’re late,” she states, watching him slide into the seat across her. There’s a ceramic mug waiting for him, steam rising from the surface. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

“Got held up talking to my calculus professor,” he explains, unwinds his scarf and tosses it to one side of the table. “Thanks,” he adds, takes the hot drink in his hands, inhales slowly.

Veronica lets him take two sips before she leans forward eagerly, says, “Well? Let me see.”

“Only if you hold up your end of the bargain,” he returns, and she huffs impatiently, digs into her bag and pulls out a black plastic folder.

“Got them right here,” she says triumphantly, waving the envelope in front of his face. 

He sighs, opens his own bag and retrieves a stack of paper from it. The margins are scribbled over in red pen, words crossed out and then added again. “Fine,” he says, and hands his work over. “But I want your honest opinion.”

“Trust me,” Veronica replies, pushing the folder across the table, “you’re not worth lying to.” But she grins at him, wide-eyed and excited, so he knows she doesn’t really mean it.

Three years ago, Jughead would have rather streaked through the school halls naked than show anyone, especially Veronica Lodge, any of his work. The novel he’d worked on tirelessly for most of their sophomore year had turned more into an outlet for his pent-up emotions than anything else, but it had also given him some kind of direction in life.

It was Veronica’s brilliant idea to “trade their crafts,” which is how he finds himself flipping through the portfolio that had gotten her into art school.

The first shot is one of Pop’s, the night sky in the background and the bright neon lights practically jumping off the page. There’s one of Sweetwater River, the water crystalline and the riverbank covered in wildflowers. There’s a picture of Thorn Hill, mist swirling around in the foreground, the steel gates imposing and harsh.

Jughead turns the page, finds himself staring at candid shots of Betty, her hair down and her smile wide, talking to Polly’s growing stomach. There are photos of Archie, strumming his guitar and staring out his window, seeming miles way from where he is. 

He keeps going and sees an image of Cheryl, holding a tube of lipstick in one hand and trying to shield her face with the other. There are a couple of Kevin, Reggie, and Josie dancing in a club, strobe lights flashing all around them. He can practically hear their laughter.

He flips the book over, and to his surprise, he’s looking down at a picture of himself. He’s sitting at their regular booth in Pop’s, forehead creased in concentration as he stares at something on his computer screen. Jughead recognizes it as the expression he wears when he’s trying to stitch ideas together, when something in his thoughts doesn’t make sense.

He wonders when Veronica had taken it, wonders how he’d never noticed her with a camera before. The pictures are _good_ , the kind only someone with natural talent and skill would be able to produce, and he’s a little embarrassed by how surprised he was by her major, when this is clearly something she was born to do.

Jughead’s known Veronica for a little over three years, but he doesn’t think he’s ever really paid attention to her until now. He’s certainly never thought of her the way the boys back in high school had, and maybe that’s what had deluded him into thinking that he knew her, that he could read her like one of his books.

He lingers over the picture of himself, and something in his gut twists into knots. He feels stupid, idiotic, all of a sudden, like an illusion’s been shattered but he doesn’t know which one.

Veronica clears her throat and Jughead jumps in his seat, turns to look at her. “Your pictures are good,” he says, and she deflates in relief. It’s a minuscule movement, but he’s glad to have caught it. It makes her seem more human somehow. “Probably because of the expensive camera, but good enough.”

“Well, your story’s pretty good,” she returns, her mouth curling upwards at the ends. “Probably because you’re the poster boy for existential angst, but good enough.”

There’s a brief pause, the two of them lock eyes, and then Jughead grins. “Fuck you,” he says, and Veronica dissolves into laughter. “These are really good,” he admits, handing the portfolio back to her.

“I like what you have so far,” Veronica replies. “It’s very Vonnegut meets Orwell meets Stephenie Meyer.”

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not,” Jughead says, shaking his head in amusement. Three years ago, she would have been for sure. And three years ago, Jughead would have countered her statement with something equally as snarky.

God, they were terrible people. How on earth did Archie and Betty manage to hang out around them? He makes a mental note to ask Archie about that the next time he calls before he remembers that Archie’s unaware of the fact that Jughead’s been actively hanging out with his ex-girlfriend. Kevin would have a field day.

“Neither can I,” Veronica says. “It’s my default mode.” When Jughead groans, she actually leans forward and reaches out, holds Jughead’s chin in her hand and tilts his head towards her. “Seriously, Jughead,” she says earnestly, “you’re good.”

 _You’re great_ , Jughead’s mind supplies automatically, and he feels something within him shift and explode. Oh, God.

His eyes fly open and he immediately tenses beneath her touch, practically recoiling in his shock. Veronica withdraws her hand, shoots him confused glances which Jughead pointedly ignores, his brain reeling.

“So, that project you’ve got due next month, how’s that coming along?” he asks, in lieu of going into catatonic shock.

If Veronica picks up on how high-pitched his voice suddenly is, she doesn’t show it. “It’s fine,” she says, pausing to take a sip from her drink. “But my professor wants me to use a male subject,” she adds, a hint of disgust in her tone. “And it’s not that I have anything against the male species, but try posting an ad for a male model willing to take his shirt off and see how many creeps you find.”

Jughead laughs, allows himself to relax a little. Then he notices the look Veronica is giving him and his smile falters. “What?”

“You know,” Veronica says slowly, like she’s just slotting pieces together, “you’re really not bad looking. And, I mean this solely from an artistic point of view,” she clarifies, putting a hand up like she’s swearing on it. “Nothing else.”

Jughead says, “No.”

Veronica bats her eyelashes, says, “Please?”

Jughead says, “Fuck no.”

—

“I hate you,” Jughead tells her, tone as serious as possible. There’s a gust of wind and he shivers, hisses as the cool air hits his skin. Damn Veronica Lodge. “Really, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Veronica replies without missing a beat. She fiddles around with the lens of her camera, checks the color balance and the light settings.

“I look ridiculous,” Jughead groans for the fifteenth time, fighting down the urge to run a brush through his hair. His hand twitches at his side.

“You look hot, is what you look,” Veronica counters, slapping his hand away. “Don’t ruin my hard work.”

They’re standing in the middle of Central Park, Veronica with a fancy camera slung around her neck, the heels of her boots sinking into the slush. Jughead’s hair is gelled and styled into a disheveled mess that’s meant to be artistic, and he’s holding onto the tattered leather jacket Veronica had thrown at him.

He has no idea what he’s doing here, has no idea how he’s supposed to make this shoot work. Jughead’s barely able to smile for school pictures; he’s not exactly the epitome of, “Think sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” that Veronica’s apparently going for. Even with a studded leather jacket.

When he says as much, Veronica just scoffs, says, “And you say _I’m_ dramatic.” 

She lifts the camera up to her face and takes a few test shots, adjusts the lighting stand Jughead had carried halfway across the city. The stares he got on the subway were not fun. “Now, shut up and take your shirt off.”

With one final, desperate groan, which is ignored by the raven-haired girl impatiently tapping her foot in front of him, Jughead does as he’s told. It’s freezing out, the cold air hitting his skin in icy pinpricks, but Veronica’s promised to pay for his hospital fees should he catch pneumonia, so he goes along with it. At least he gets to wear the jacket.

It’s probably just the cold causing his brain to short circuit, but he thinks he sees Veronica’s gaze linger for a second longer than necessary, her glance assessing and thick with a tension he can’t place, a tension he suddenly feels swirling around in the open air.

Then she seems to snap out of it, shakes her head, grins at him. “What are you waiting for?” she demands, lifts her camera upwards once again. “Let’s make some art.”

—

“You seem to be making more progress, Mr. Jones,” his professor tells him, reading over the latest draft Jughead’s sent over for his approval. 

“Thanks, Jim,” Jughead says, stretches his arms above his head. He notices the glare on his elderly professor’s face and sighs. “Sorry, Professor Davis. Guess you were right about me needing a change.”

Professor Davis nods, purses his lips thoughtfully, like Jughead’s said something particularly profound. “Change isn’t always a bad thing,” he says. “I’ve never been able to figure out why students think otherwise.”

Jughead’s phone buzzes, and he knows it’s a text from Veronica. He thinks about the way she never sugarcoats her opinion, the way her face had lit up the last time he saw her, how she’d grabbed his hand and said, “Amazing, Jug, seriously.”

He thinks about the way things were three years ago, wonders how he’d ever lived his life without the presence of Veronica Lodge when she takes up such a great space in it now.

“Who knows?” he replies with a shrug. He stands, retrieves his work. “Maybe they’re just scared to live.”

—

Three weeks later, he meets Veronica for drinks at some beach-themed bar in Brooklyn, another one of her favorite haunts. He kind of likes the way New York restaurants really stick to their themes, and this place is no different. There’s actual sand on the floor, and the drinks come in colorful tumblers topped with paper umbrellas.

“When you said Brooklyn,” Jughead starts, taking in the fairy lights and the orange concoction Veronica had ordered for him, “I was expecting something a little more…”

“Edgy?” Veronica finishes for him. “Alternative? Cool? Somewhere suspenders, plaid, and, dare I say, beanies would be all the rage? Why would you ever want to go to a place like that?”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Alright, you caught me,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I just wanted to be with my own people.” Veronica throws a paper umbrella at him.

The surprising potency of the alcohol, mixed in with the fact that midterms season had just ended, means that Veronica ends up getting them another two rounds, leaving Jughead tipping towards her unsteadily, both of them giggling.

There’s a lull in their conversation, and then Veronica says, “Tell me about Betty.”

“She’s your best friend,” Jughead says, shooting her a curious glance. “What do you need to know?”

“Tell me why you guys broke up,” she continues. When Jughead opens his mouth to protest, Veronica holds a hand up, stopping him. “Yes, I know I heard it from her. But now I want to hear it from you. There are two sides to every story after all.”

“There’s not much to say,” Jughead replies, shrugs ruefully. “I guess after Jason’s case closed, there wasn’t much reason for us to stay together.”

He and Betty had gotten together amidst the circumstances surrounding Jason Blossom’s death, when for the first time in their lives, Riverdale had been a place of mystery, excitement, intrigue, with tensions running high and no one was to be trusted.

It was Jason’s murder and the events that stemmed from his death that had brought them together. He supposes that it was only fitting for the conclusion of the case to bring about the end of their relationship as well.

He loves Betty, cares about her, nothing about that will ever change. But something inside him has always known they weren’t meant to last, that their relationship was on borrowed time. When they finally called it quits, a pressure he hadn’t known existed eased up a little, allowing him to breathe.

Veronica nods like she understands, and she probably does. She’s always been empathetic, has always found a way to insert herself into narratives that aren’t hers and build from there, but Jughead doesn’t mind anymore.

He’s starting to think that maybe he never really did.

“What about you and Archie?” he asks, mainly to fill the sudden silence. They both know that Archie’s already told him everything.

“What always happens,” Veronica says, and she seems a little wistful, a little nostalgic. He wonders when this conversation took such a serious turn. “Life. Veronica Lodge doesn’t do long-distance.”

It’s the same reasoning, the same words that Archie had parroted back to him the night they broke up, but something in Jughead’s gut tells him that it isn’t entirely the truth. He realizes that it’s because he knows Veronica now, knows her mannerisms and the way she avoids eye contact when she’s lying.

But he also knows her well enough to know that prying for information will get him nowhere, that Veronica will come to him when she’s ready. They’ve got that in common, after all.

Jughead tilts back in his seat, squints against the sudden brightness of the lights around them, and says, “Your loss.” 

Veronica kicks him underneath the table, and just like that, they’re back to normal.

—

Veronica lives in her own apartment off-campus, one of the only properties her mom had on her own before the court took everything with Hiram Lodge’s name attached to it. When Jughead first found out, he’d said, “Figures the rich girl wouldn’t live in a dorm like everyone else.”

Veronica gaped at him, put a hand over her heart like what he said had personally offended her. “Me?” she echoed with an exaggerated gasp. “Live with _other_ people?”

Three years go, the acidity in his tone would have been genuine. Three years ago, she’d have shot back with a biting comment of her own, while Archie and Betty exchanged resigned glances when they thought they weren’t looking.

“I had fun,” she tells him when they’ve stopped in front of her apartment. Her cheeks are tinged pink from the cold, eyes strangely bright. 

“I had fun, too,” he says honestly, surprised that it’s the first time he’s admitted this in the two months they’ve been hanging out.

It’s dark out, only a few stars scattered across the night sky, and strangely silent, like a hush has fallen over everything, blanketing the city. The only light coming in is from the street lamps further ahead, set up along the main road. 

Veronica looks up at him from beneath curled lashes, dark hair and dark eyes drawing him in, like some kind of gravity-defying pull. It’s like he can’t look away, like he’s frozen in place, and almost unknowingly, his gaze darts down to her lips.

For one wild, furious second, he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

“I’ll see you,” Veronica says, and then she’s peeling herself away from him, walking into her lobby and leaving Jughead outside, standing in the cold.

He makes his way back to the dorms, his insides surprisingly still. He supposes that this would have come as more of a shock to him if the thought hadn’t been lingering at the back of his head for weeks, maybe even longer.

Besides, Jughead had long ago resigned himself to the fact that his life was never going to go the way he expected it to. Case in point: here he is falling over the girl he had once referred to as the Snow Queen.

He thinks he would have been more surprised if this was the first time he’s ever thought about what it might be like to kiss Veronica Lodge.

But it isn’t.

—

The summer before their junior year, Jughead walks back from visiting (read: sneaking into) Betty’s room. Even though her mom’s lightened up considerably, especially in the wake of Polly’s pregnancy, Mrs. Cooper has always made her disdain for him obvious. 

Besides, he kind of likes scaling the wall of the Cooper residence. Some part of him never did get over wanting to be a secret agent.

He knows that Veronica’s over at Archie’s tonight, though he’s not entirely sure why. The two of them had finally gotten together at his disastrous birthday party, eliciting a lot of disappointment from a majority of the female population at Riverdale High.

Betty had been ecstatic, Jughead had been apathetic, Cheryl had been furious, and Kevin had said, “Major plot twist, but I still ship it.”

He crosses the short distance towards the Andrews house, and in the dim light from the moon, he’s surprised to find Veronica sitting on the steps of the front porch, a vacant expression on her face.

“Not doing the walk of shame, are you?” she asks when he stops in front of her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, too curious to bother with being polite.

Veronica lets out a gusty sigh. “My mother requested use of the Pembrooke this evening,” she tells him, folding her legs closer to her body. “As it had something to do with Fred Andrews, I chose not to ask.”

Translation: “You got sexiled by your mom?”

“Ugh, pretty much?” Veronica gripes, her lips curling in distaste. “I get that she’s an adult who can make her own decisions, but I’d rather that said decisions didn’t happen in my living room.”

To his surprise, Jughead actually cracks a smile. The gesture seems to serve as some kind of icebreaker, because when Veronica shifts over to let him pass through, instead of walking inside the house, he finds himself sitting next to her.

“Mr. Andrews is great,” he says sincerely, looking out at the empty street in front of him. From his peripheral, he feels her turn towards him, those dark eyes directed _at_ him, instead of past him, for once.

“Archie is a pretty lucky guy,” she agrees, exhales slowly. There’s a beat of silence, and then because she’s Veronica Lodge, she asks, “How’s your dad?”

FP Jones had been wrongly convicted for the murder of Jason Blossom a few months prior. There had been sufficient evidence that led to his arrest, evidence even Archie and Betty were unable to overlook. The whole ordeal had led to a lot of forced sympathy and whispers that trailed him down the halls, and the iciest treatment Cheryl Blossom had ever given him.

In the end, it had been one of Clifford Blossom’s men that had done the job. It was the classic tale of a missed target, a hired assassin gone rogue, and the heir to the Blossom family fortune and father-to-be was killed. But the other charges against FP were pretty serious, serious enough to land him behind bars for at least seven years.

“I’m not giving up on him,” he says, but the words come out hollow, empty. He’d been the weird kid with the weird name for so long; the added pressure of being the weird kid whose dad had shot Jason Blossom still lingers somehow.

“I know,” Veronica replies, her voice quiet, hushed. “Trust me, Jughead. I know what it’s like.”

Here’s the thing: Veronica does know. She knows more about this than anyone else. More than Betty, who’d stroked his cheek and said, “I know, Jug, and I’m here for you.” More than Archie, who opened his home to him, who is more like family than anyone he has left.

Veronica knows, truly and viscerally, what he’s going through.

They sit together for a while longer, and Jughead suddenly feels like they’re the only two people sitting on the fringes of the edge of the world. When the clouds shift and a breeze starts to drift through the air, Jughead stands, says, “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

The walk back to the Pembrooke is spent mostly in silence, and Jughead thinks it’s the most comfortable he’s ever been around Veronica, when the pauses that fill the gaps in their conversations are usually so awkward and forced.

They stop in front of her building, and Veronica notices the truck still parked down the road. She sighs, lingers in front of him. In the light from the street, her features look softer, more vulnerable. He thinks it might be the first time he’s ever truly thought of her as beautiful.

“Thanks for walking me back,” she says, tone soft. She inches forward, and Jughead wonders if this is what Archie felt like in the closet: rooted in his spot and unable to move away, but not caring nonetheless.

It’s like they’re trapped in a bubble of their own creation, something that keeps the rest of the world at bay. He can’t look at anything but her, can’t see anything else in front of him, and when his eyes flit down to her lips, he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

Their reentry into reality comes in the form of the front door opening, the sound of Mr. Andrews hurrying down the steps piercing into their moment. He seems pleased, content, and it’s Veronica’s obvious embarrassment that sets Jughead back.

“Oh,” Mr. Andrews says when he finally notices the two teenagers standing in front of him, probably staring at him like a pair of deer caught in the headlights. “I didn’t know you were out here, Jug. Come on, I’ll give you a ride back.” Then he turns to Veronica and nods. “Veronica, nice to see you.”

She gives him a polite smile in return, the corners of her eyes creasing slightly, and shoots Jughead one last glance. Somehow, he feels like he’s just lost something. “Bye,” she says.

“Bye,” Jughead calls out, but she’s already closing the door behind her.

The next Monday, when school starts up again, Veronica calls him Jess Mariano at lunch. He follows that up with, “Yeah, okay, Paris Geller,” even though Paris has always reminded him more of Betty.

He likes to pretend that Veronica pauses for a second longer than usual before ramming the tip of her stiletto into his shin.


	2. dance dance dance

“Seriously?” Jughead says in disbelief, one corner of his mouth curling into a grimace. “You want to go to a frat party,” he repeats, hoping Veronica picks up on the outright distaste in his voice.

“Yes, Jughead, I want to go to a frat party,” Veronica says again, tone faux-patient. “Partying is what I did best once,” she adds, flicks her hair back.

“You’re only, like, nineteen,” Jughead points out, using his pen to gesture at her from across the table. “How exactly did you manage that before Riverdale? Do they sell juice boxes in New York clubs?”

Veronica huffs in annoyance and rolls her eyes, which means that Jughead’s just won this round of who can out-snark the other. Unfortunately for him, his triumph is extremely short-lived.

“You’ve been at college for an entire semester and you haven’t been to a party _once_ ,” Veronica stresses, like he’s already broken some kind of cardinal rule. “One night of fun isn’t going to kill you.”

“It might,” Jughead replies dryly, and Veronica glares at him. “I’m morally opposed to any kind of so-called ‘fun,’” he says. “Frat parties included.” He still hasn’t forgotten his disaster of a birthday party. 

Veronica must know what he’s thinking, because she says, “We’ll only stay for an hour.”

Jughead says, “No.”

Veronica bats her eyelashes, says, “Please, Jughead?”

Jughead says, “You’ll have to drag my body down the street if you want me to do this,” and Veronica narrows her eyes challengingly.

—

Friday night catches Jughead standing in the middle of some random kid’s basement, techno music blasting from the speakers, and drunk and rowdy teenagers pushing against him as he tries to navigate his way through the crush.

He hates Veronica so much sometimes.

The party is everything he complained it was going to be: loud, overly packed, the smell of cheap vodka and sweat all mingling together in the hot, musty air. Veronica immediately makes a beeline for the dance floor, but Jughead hangs back, crosses his arms and watches the room sway in synch with the music.

Like a beacon of light in the middle of all the darkness, Veronica is suddenly in front of him, tugging at his wrist and leading him out onto the floor. “The whole outsider thing you had going for you is _so_ high school,” she yells out over the sound.

It’s the noise, the music, the sweat dripping down the sides of her face, the way she throws her head back and laughs at his feeble attempts at dancing. It’s the way the strobe lights hit her body in flashes of purple and green, the way the edges of the world suddenly blur and contract, leaving them trapped in each other’s space.

Veronica’s shouting something at him, trying to be heard over the music, but when he shakes his head at her, she leans forward, attempting to whisper in his ear. Jughead turns too quickly and catches her mouth in a surprise kiss, their lips brushing against each other’s for a brief moment that feels like an eternity.

They spring apart like they’ve received an electric shock, and for a minute, they can only stare at each other in surprise. It’s like the noise of the party has suddenly died down, and all Jughead can hear is the roaring in his head. Everything fades in and out like a film in slow motion, and he’d blame it on the drugs if he’d taken any, on the alcohol if he’d had more than a few sips of beer.

He’s never been a huge fan of how kissing scenes are done in movies, but it still feels pretty fucking cinematic when they finally snap and rush towards each other, meeting in the middle like they can’t stay apart. It’s like he and Veronica are magnets, two opposites that are drawn to each other no matter how much they want to separate.

She slides her tongue into his mouth, tangles her fingers in his hair and tugs slightly, just enough to get him to let out a groan. His hands drop down to her waist, fingernails digging into the exposed skin he finds there, leaving an imprint of his touch against her skin.

“Yours or mine?” Jughead asks when they finally pull apart. The words spill unfound from his mouth before he can think to stop them.

“Yours is closer,” Veronica says, her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy. She grabs onto his hand as they attempt to navigate their way through the crowd, something inside him still unwilling to believe that they’re actually about to fucking do this.

She lets go the second they step outside, and even though the temperature has dropped, he feels warm, lightheaded, for the first time in ages. He doesn’t try to touch her until they stumble into his dorm room and he fumbles for the lock, and then Veronica is on him again, backing him up until his knees hit the bed.

“I’ve seen closets bigger than this place,” she tells him, but there’s no real venom in her voice. Probably because she’s mouthing along the slope of his jaw.

“Wait, Ronnie,” he manages to say, and it’s the use of her nickname that gives her pause. “You sure about this?”

Veronica flips a dark curtain of hair over her left shoulder, maneuvers their positions so that she’s straddling him. “Shut up and fuck me,” she orders, and Jughead, well, Jughead does as he’s told.

—

“How’s your novel coming along?” Archie asks him.

“Pretty good, actually,” Jughead replies. He presses the phone to his ear with his shoulder, attempting to walk with his laptop balanced in his hands.

Archie huffs out a laugh, sensing the change in Jughead’s mood from over a thousand miles away. “Found yourself a muse?” he teases, and Jughead freezes.

There’s a certain level of guilt that nestles itself in Jughead’s gut whenever Archie calls, the words, _Hey, guess what, I’m sleeping with your ex-girlfriend_ , always at the tip of his tongue. Jughead loves Archie like a brother, but even that’s not enough to get him to stop what he has with Veronica.

What exactly _it_ is, he’s not entirely sure. But he likes it a lot, likes the way she grins at him, wicked and sharp, the way she pushes her hands into his hair, the way she climbs on top of him the second she walks into his room, only after commenting on its size.

Most of all, he likes Veronica and her complete inability to be anyone but herself, the way she constantly pushes him to do better, to live more, to just be.

That’s the scariest bit about all of this, if he’s being honest with himself.

He finally makes his way to the shop, pushes the door open. “Something like that,” he says, and across the room, Veronica catches his eye and smiles conspiratorially.

—

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Veronica asks him, looking up from her notes. They’re sitting side by side on his single bed, and she’s reading over his latest draft, scribbling comments in the margins with a purple pen.

Jughead blinks at her, surprised by the question. “You don’t want to be,” he says.

Veronica makes a face. “That’s like telling a girl she’s got a great personality when she asks if she looks fat.”

“You’re not a bad person,” Jughead assures her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Where’s all this coming from?”

“From you?” Veronica starts, hesitant. “From this?” She lets out a sigh. “Keeping it from Betty, it just reminds me too much of what I used to do; sneaking around with my friends’ boyfriends. Though, mind you, it was usually when they were still together.” She notices the look on Jughead’s face and says, “Yeah, I was a bitch.”

“This doesn’t make you a bad person,” he tells her, but even he feels slightly sick at the thought of Archie, two thousand miles away and more clueless than usual. “We’ve all got both light and dark inside of us.”

Veronica nods sagely, seeming to digest his words. Then she straightens up and narrows her eyes at him. “Did you steal that from _Harry Potter_?”

Jughead starts laughing and she shoves him off the bed.

—

He impresses his British Literature professor with his final paper of the semester, so he’s offered a part-time job over the summer. It mostly consists of doing research and making copies, but he figures that it’ll also look good on his record, so he takes it.

Besides, the idea of Riverdale makes him want to crawl into a deep hole somewhere, and even though he misses his mom and Jellybean, he tells himself that there’s always Christmas. Archie’s been accepted into a prestigious mentorship program, and Veronica told him that Betty’s mom was flying out to Stanford instead.

He tries to convince himself that he’s not relieved he won’t have to face Archie or Betty for another few months, doesn’t even let the thought enter his head.

“The only thing is,” his professor says to him when he accepts the position, “since you aren’t signed up for summer classes, you can’t stay in the dorms.”

For the first time in his life, Jughead has a solution.

Veronica makes space on her shelves for his books, displays them prominently alongside her camera. She hangs the picture she’d taken of him in the front hall, and he retaliates by snapping a photo of her wearing his beanie and threatens to send it to Kevin.

There’s an extra room that’s meant to be his, but the two of them give up all pretenses of sleeping separately almost right away. He gets used to waking up in the morning with a mouthful of black hair, the blanket pulled over to her side of the bed.

They silently agree to keep the empty bedroom as a sort of security net, a place where he can go if he feels like being alone. It doesn’t get used much, and the piles of his clothes in her closet only continues to grow.

—

“Is this weird?” he asks her one night. They’re in the kitchen, Jughead at the stove and Veronica sitting on the counter behind him. The two of them are pretty mediocre cooks, and he’s stirring something that’s meant to be spaghetti sauce.

“Is what weird?” she says, hopping off the counter and peering into the contents of the pot over his shoulder, moving into his space like she owns it. Considering the fact that he’s standing in her apartment, she probably does. “I don’t think that’s supposed to be turning brown.”

“Crap,” Jughead says, switches off the heat. The sauce bubbles ominously, and he turns to her. “We’re weird,” he explains. “This whole thing is weird. Why are you doing this? Why would you want to be linked to a weirdo like me?” 

“I hate to break it to you,” Veronica says, puts her hands on her hips, “but you’re not as weird as you think you are.” 

“What?” Jughead instantly reels backwards like he’s been slapped. He thinks he might actually be offended. “I’m weird,” he tells her. “I’m a weirdo. I’m different. I like old films and auteur directors—”

“Your favorite movie is _Pulp Fiction_ ,” Veronica interrupts him, rolling her eyes. “News flash: half the people in the city, no, half the people in the _world_ like it as much as you do. Tarantino’s practically mainstream at this point.”

“Take that back,” Jughead hisses, as if Veronica’s just insulted his dad. If he thinks about it, she might as well have. “ _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ isn’t exactly obscure, either.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter to me,” she says, losing patience. “I’m not the ‘weird, alternative one,’” she adds, doing a startlingly accurate impression of his voice.

She also makes air quotations around the last three words. That is somehow the worst part about all of this. Jughead glares and Veronica glares right back, and the two of them stand locked in place, their arms crossed over their chests.

Surprisingly, it’s Veronica who caves first this time. She sighs, shakes her head fondly, then leans over and kisses him. 

“We’re fine,” she tells him, and she seems so sincere that he almost believes her. “The only person who’s got a problem with this is you.” Then she looks into the pot and adds, “And you burned the sauce. I’m going to go get the takeout menus.”

She flounces away into the next room, and Jughead slumps down against the kitchen counter, presses his forehead to the granite. Weird or not, he needs to talk about this with someone before he self-detonates.

“Chinese or Thai?” Veronica calls out. “Or we can try that new Korean place down on eighth?”

He’s living with Veronica fucking Lodge. How is anything about this _not_ completely, totally, absolutely fucking weird?

—

“You’re living with Veronica?” Jellybean demands, her voice rising slightly in shock. “Veronica? Veronica Lodge?”

“How many Veronicas do you know?” Jughead replies, wincing as Jellybean huffs down the line. Even though they’ve never officially met, Jellybean knows who she is. Everyone’s heard of Veronica Lodge.

“You’re living with Veronica,” Jellybean repeats, incredulous. Jughead closes his eyes, wills for her to stop saying it. “You’re living with your best friend’s ex-girlfriend. _Your_ ex-girlfriend’s best friend.”

“I think I know how we all relate to each other, thanks,” he snaps irritably, then immediately feels bad. It’s not his sister’s fault that his life is a total mess.

“But do you like her?” she suddenly asks him, the question coming out louder in his ear. “Like, like _like_ her?”

“It might be something a little bit more than that,” Jughead mumbles, half-hoping she doesn’t hear him. He surprises even himself with the stark honesty in his tone. 

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Then Jellybean says, “That’s foul, bro.”

Jughead hangs up on her.

“Rude,” Jellybean says when he calls her back. “Don’t hate me for telling it like it is, Jug. You don’t date your friends’ exes.”

“How would you know that?” Jughead asks her. Despite himself, he feels his heart rate pick up slightly. Who knows what kind of fundamental laws of nature he might be breaking? “You’re, like, twelve.”

“Thirteen,” Jellybean corrects him. “I’m in middle school now. I’m exposed to the world of boys and stu—shit.” Jughead closes his eyes, tries to fight off the oncoming stress headache. “Plus, Susie Carter told me that you should never date a friend’s ex. She would know; she has four.”

“Well if Susie Carter _said_ so,” Jughead drawls, and he can practically hear his sister’s answering eye roll. “Let’s talk about something else. Did you get the records I sent for you?”

“Yeah,” Jellybean mutters, distracted. She sounds bored. “But it was all, like, old people stuff. Don’t you have anything more current?”

“What?” Jughead blinks in confusion, tries to make sense of her words. “That was The Beach Boys and The Police. You used to love listening to Pink Floyd when you were younger!”

“That was so, like, three years ago,” Jellybean says, and Jughead’s never felt so out of his depth. He wonders when he got so _old_. “I’m a different person now. My taste has matured. Like, have you heard the new Chainsmokers song?”

Jughead hangs up on her.

“Stop doing that,” Jellybean says when he calls her back. There’s another short pause while she mulls something over. “Hey, Jug?” she begins, hesitant. “I was just kidding about it being foul, okay? I want you to be happy. Are you happy?”

There’s a beat of silence while Jughead thinks it over. Happiness used to be such a faraway place, an almost foreign concept to him in the midst of everything going on. Now, well, now he’s not _un_ happy at the very least.

He likes his life now, likes how easy and uncomplicated it is, even with the ghosts of Archie and Betty looming over their heads like phantoms of the unspoken past, even under the weight of everything they aren’t saying. He likes the small, everyday bits of their relationship, the in-between moments that no one ever catches.

“I am,” he tells his sister, and he’s comforted by the fact that he knows he’s not lying.

—

Two weeks later, Cheryl Blossom shows up on their doorstep.

Veronica had made sure to warn him in advance that she was planning to visit on her way home from Yale, but Jughead is still a little deterred when the doorbell rings while Veronica’s out with some of her art school friends, leaving him alone to entertain Riverdale’s very own anti-heroine.

He manages to send Veronica a quick text as he ushers Cheryl into the kitchen. _She’s here_ , he hurriedly types out. _Don’t leave me with the Antichrist._

“So,” Cheryl finally says once they’re sitting around the kitchen table. She rolls the word around on her tongue and crosses her legs, leans forward like she’s a reporter on the brink of a scoop. “You and Veronica.”

“If you’re just here to grill me about me and Veronica, then you might as well leave,” Jughead says, pushes a glass of water towards her. He may be dealing with the Devil incarnate, but he still has his manners. “My lips are sealed.”

“And if I merely wanted to check in with my two very close friends from high school?” Cheryl suggests innocently, her eyes wide. Jughead lets out a derisive snort. “Besides, as Veronica’s best friend—”

“Betty is Veronica’s best friend,” Jughead cuts in.

“Not after dear, sweet Betty finds out that Veronica has been shacking up with her ex-boyfriend,” Cheryl counters, smooth as glass. Jughead’s face pales considerably.

Jughead sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you want, Cheryl?” he asks her, tired. “If you’re here to tell me that I’m not good enough for Veronica—”

She holds a hand up to stop him. “On the contrary,” she says, “I’m more than supportive of this new…development.” She pronounces the last word like a bad taste in her mouth. “If Veronica is busy with you, I might finally have a shot with one Archie Andrews.”

He supposes that he should have been more surprised by the fact that Cheryl’s approval had come with an ulterior motive, but it’s just so _Cheryl_ of her. “You’re a devious woman, Cheryl Blossom,” Jughead replies, and he’s almost impressed.

She grins at him wide, baring her teeth like a shark. “I’d be insulted if you thought I wasn’t.” Then her expression quickly sobers. “I never did apologize to you for the way I acted when your father was convicted for Jason’s death,” she says suddenly, studying her perfectly painted nails with scientific precision.

For a second, Jughead wonders if he’s just fallen into another dimension. Because there’s no way Cheryl Blossom is actually _apologizing_ , much less to him, the weird loner. “Are you actually apologizing?” he blurts out, and Cheryl’s eyes flash.

“I’ll say this once and then never again: I’m sorry.” She shudders instantly, like the whole ordeal has physically pained her. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you when the real culprits were my crazy parents.” Her mouth twists unhappily.

“Hey,” Jughead says. He almost reaches out for her before giving it a second thought. He happens to like his right hand, thank you very much. “I’m not my dad,” he tells her. “You’re not your parents, as psychotic as they might be.” Cheryl glowers at him. “We are not our parents.”

“To not being our parents,” she echoes, raises her empty glass in the air.

It’s at this moment that Veronica walks in. “Oh,” she says, stopping in her tracks when she takes in the scene in front of her. “Sorry I’m late. What are we toasting to?”

“Not being our parents,” Jughead says, and Veronica grins in delight.

“Oh, amen, girl,” she says, moving to grab a glass from the cupboard above the sink. “I’ll drink to that.” She tips her head to one side, looking thoughtful. “We need something more exciting than water, though.”

Cheryl clears her throat. “How timely,” she says, and grabs her purse off the floor, sets it down on the table. “I’ve actually brought you both a gift. It’s just a small token of my appreciation, to thank you for your hospitality.” 

She digs into her bag, and out of its _Mary Poppins_ -like depths, she pulls out a bottle of Moët & Chandon. “Champagne, anyone?”

Veronica’s expression immediately brightens. “Now you’re talking,” she says, pulling champagne flutes from the cabinet. 

Cheryl pops the cork and pours them each a generous amount. She passes a flute over to Jughead and he twirls the stem of the glass in between his fingers, watching the bubbling, fizzy liquid swirl around and around. 

“Allow me to make a toast,” Veronica says, clearing her throat. “To making messes of our own lives, instead of perpetually getting caught up in our parents’ shit.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Cheryl adds with a sharp incline of her head. She turns to Jughead, lifts a brow. “Anything you want to add?” 

Jughead tips the rim of his glass towards Veronica. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he says, and it’s only when the words leave his mouth does he realize what exactly he’s saying. 

Or, to be more precise, what exactly he’s _not_ saying.

He coughs, the tips of his ears burning. From across the table, he notices a similar flush spreading along Veronica’s cheeks, before she seems to snap out of it. 

“Aw, Jughead,” she coos, pretending to swoon. “Don’t worry, we’ll always have Riverdale.” 

Cheryl smirks into her champagne glass when Jughead chokes in response.

—

“I think I like Cheryl,” Jughead says, one bottle of expensive champagne later. 

He and Veronica are slumped on the couch, his arm thrown over the back. Cheryl had left a few minutes before, slightly unsteady on her feet, tossing them both conspicuous winks as she walked out the front door.

“She has her moments,” Veronica agrees. “By the way, did you notice that almost everyone back home has a single parent? Like, does Riverdale have some kind of monopoly on single parenting or something?”

Jughead sits up and frowns, considering this. The alcohol is making his head spin, and his brain feels slower than usual.

“You’re right,” he says instead. “Maybe _I’m_ not the weird one.” Then he kisses her before she can argue.

—

He gets another part-time job at the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, where he spends half his paychecks exploiting the employee discount as much as his manager will let him. Veronica is less than thrilled about all the books he brings back to the apartment. 

“Please tell me you’re going to read all of these,” she says, eyeing the towers of paperbacks taking up space in the guest room. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said we needed to decorate the place.”

But sometimes Jughead will come home from his shift and find her sitting on the couch, legs crossed and reading one of the novels he’d picked out, and his insides will warm for reasons he chooses not to identify.

That is until Veronica looks up, sees him standing there, watching her like a creep, and then tackles him to the ground instead.

The next Wednesday, Jughead’s in the Young Adult section of the store, mindlessly stacking books on the shelves, when he hears his co-worker, Sam, yell, “Hey, Jones! Your girlfriend is here.”

He jerks his head around, ready to tell Sam that he doesn’t _have_ a girlfriend, when he notices Veronica standing in the middle of the aisle, peering at the different book titles with interest. 

“Ooh, _The Summer I Turned Pretty_ ,” she reads out, plucking a novel at random off the shelf. “Sounds positively riveting.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, moving towards her. 

Veronica shrugs. “I was on the way to meet Inez and Audrey for lunch when I realized I was too early,” she says. “As you know, Veronica Lodge is never anything but fashionably late when it comes to social gatherings.”

“Yes, God forbid you actually show up on time for once,” Jughead deadpans, feeling himself start to smile helplessly regardless. “And stop referring to yourself in third person.”

“Veronica Lodge is offended as fuck,” she replies without missing a beat, and Jughead snorts in amusement. “Anyway, get back to work,” she orders, shooing him away. “I’ll just be here reading about”—she turns the book over in her hands—“Belly and Conner’s summer romance.”

He rolls his eyes, returns his attention to the shelves in front of him, and it’s somehow only then that Sam’s words set in. He’s right; Veronica _is_ his girlfriend now. Weird how that happened when neither of them were paying attention.

He figures he should have seen this coming, considering the fact that they share an apartment, but the word had always meant something so different in the past, a label he felt no need to ascribe to anyone. Even now, it still doesn’t fit what he has with Veronica; the two of them, they just _are_.

From the way Veronica’s eyes linger on the page right in front of her, gaze clouded over and a little faraway, she must not have realized it, either.

—

There was a point in Jughead’s life when every other week brought with it some new form of scandal or intrigue. Those were the days of breaking into homes for troubled teens and tension-filled baby showers, the days of whirlwind crisis and excitement.

Truth be told, he does miss those days sometimes, but only in that idle, passive sort of way that people get when everything is a little too boring, a little too routine. Besides, he kind of likes the way things are now, likes the trips to the laundromat and the arguments over whose turn it is to wash the dishes.

That being said, the drama of being woken up at seven in the morning on a Saturday, by somebody pounding on the front door with enough force to knock it down, is something that he could have really done without.

“Oh my God,” Veronica groans. “Make it stop.” She rolls over and throws a pillow over the top half of her head, leaving nothing but a few strands of dark hair visible on the sheets. She’s not very good at mornings. “Go see who it is,” she says, her voice muffled by the fabric.

He stumbles out of bed and into the dimly lit hallway, rubbing his eyes tiredly. On his way to the front door, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, takes in the bed hair and his worn, weary gaze. He’s going to kill whoever it is on the other side. If they don’t kill him first, that is.

The knocking gets louder and more insistent the closer he gets, and he finally reaches for the knob and twists it, flings the door open. The angry, harsh words immediately die on his tongue when he sees who their unwelcome visitor is.

“Hi,” Jellybean says.

—

It takes four phone calls, one hysterical voice mail from his mom, and a totally unrepentant teenager to piece together how Jellybean somehow ran away from home, bought a bus ticket to New York, and found her way to Veronica’s apartment.

“Relax, Mom,” Jellybean says, pressing Jughead’s phone to her ear. He can hear his mom yelling at her from the other side of the room. “School starts on Monday. I’m just staying until tomorrow, geez.”

Jughead’s standing by the window, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, trying to ward off the throbbing in his skull. For her own part, Veronica’s watching the scene unfold in front of her, lips pursed together tightly, like she’s trying her best not to laugh.

“I’m thirteen now, I’m old enough to take the bus on my own,” Jellybean protests. His mom must say something sharp on the other end, because his sister’s expression falls slightly. “Okay, I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again. Yes. Yeah. God, Mom, yes!”

Veronica lets out a snort of amusement. Jughead glowers at her and she smiles right back, seeming as unconcerned as his sister. _I hate you_ , he mouths, which only makes her grin wider.

“That went well,” Jellybean says when their mom finally clicks off. “She said I could spend the rest of the weekend here. Isn’t that cool? None of my friends have ever been to New York, they’re all going to be so jealous.”

“Jellybean,” Jughead says, tone exasperated. He takes a step towards her, folds his arms across his chest. “You almost gave Mom a heart attack. Do you not feel bad at all?”

But his sister just shrugs in that serene, unbothered sort of way that kids do when they finally get what they want, consequences be damned. “I did tell her that I was going around the city,” she says. “Technically, I just didn’t tell her which one.”

This is what finally causes Veronica to erupt into a fit of giggles, the sound bouncing off the walls. Before Jughead can tell her that this really _isn’t_ funny, his sister elbows her way past him and moves to stand in front of her.

“Nice to finally meet you, Veronica,” Jellybean says, not even bothering to hide the fact that she’s staring at her the way a scientist might observe a guinea pig. “I’m Jellybean Jones,” she adds, and she actually sticks out her hand.

But Veronica just nods, takes his sister’s hand and shakes it, like she’s conducting a business transaction. “Nice to finally meet you, Jellybean,” she says seriously. Well, as serious as someone wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt can be. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“That’s nice,” Jellybean replies, still sizing her up. “Don’t hurt my brother and we’ll get along just fine.”

Jughead makes a noise of protest, ready to jump in that he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thanks a lot. But then Veronica says, “I wouldn’t dream of it,” in a voice that’s nothing but sincere, and his sister inclines her head, satisfied.

“Great.” Jellybean steps away, peers around the apartment for the first time since she arrived. She takes in the wide windows that are slowly starting to fill with light, the crystals on the chandelier sparkling in the early morning sun. “So, what is there to do in New York?”

—

The answer is, quite a lot.

Veronica brings them around the city, makes Jughead do all the usual, touristy things he hasn’t been able to yet. She takes them to Rockefeller Center, all the way up to the top so that Jellybean can check out the entire skyline of New York. Veronica snaps pictures of her with the wind whipping through her hair, a huge smile stretching across her mouth.

She brings them to Times Square, walks them through the back alleys of her favorite Broadway productions, where the two girls eventually manage to persuade Jughead into posing for a picture with a bunch of people dressed up as the Flintstones, ignoring his painfully awkward smile.

She drags Jughead into the MoMA, where the Jones siblings spend an excruciating two hours walking through floor after floor of modern art, listening to Veronica talk and talk and talk about all her favorite pieces and artists, barely stopping for air.

“I’m bored,” Jellybean whispers. But Jughead, who had been too busy watching the way Veronica gestured and explained, the light in her eyes dancing all the while, just startles, his sister’s voice jerking him back into the present.

“What did you say?” he asks her, and Jellybean moves away from him in a huff. He swears he hears her mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, “Sucker,” under her breath as she does.

Ten minutes later, the three of them catch the subway to Central Park. Jellybean clings to him the entire ride over, her eyes wide as she takes in the crowds of people in the vast underground system. When they finally arrive, she instantly pulls him into the middle of a field, wanting to bask in the sun.

It’s while the two of them are arguing over the best place to lay a picnic blanket does he hear the telltale click of a camera shutter, and he spins around and catches Veronica smiling down at her display screen. She looks up and meets his gaze, grins, and Jughead starts to smile helplessly in response.

Jellybean follows the line of his sight, glances from her brother to Veronica and back, then shakes her head. “Gross,” she says loudly, laughing as the tips of Jughead’s ears burn red in embarrassment.

For dinner, Veronica brings them to another Shake Shack, where much like he did, Jellybean expresses disbelief at the notion of any milkshake being superior to Pop’s. Jughead has never been more proud in his life.

“Your brother said the exact same thing the first time I brought him here,” Veronica says, catches Jughead’s eye across the table. She sets a plastic cup down in front of his sister, pushes it towards her. “Prepare to be proven wrong.”

Jellybean makes a face, takes a tentative sip, and then her eyes widen. Jughead ruffles her hair, laughs as she starts to suck on the straw without stopping. “Don’t feel bad,” he tells her. “Veronica Lodge makes a fool of us all.”

“Keep telling yourself that, bro,” Jellybean answers back without looking at him, and it’s Veronica who laughs at the indignant expression that comes over Jughead’s features. He supposes his little sister was bound to inherit his snark at some point. The next few years are not going to be fun.

Between the two siblings, they must consume around three and a half burgers each. Jughead notices Veronica watching them, seeming slightly bewildered, and he drapes his arm around Jellybean. “What can I say?” He lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “We Joneses love our burgers.”

“I can see that,” Veronica responds, impressed. Jellybean lets out a long burp in response.

The only snag in the day comes when they get back to the apartment and Jughead shows his sister to the guest room. She scans the empty closet, the slightly dusty shelves, the towers of unread books, and asks, “But where are you supposed to sleep?”

Veronica, the traitor that she is, claps a hand over her mouth like she’s trying to suppress laughter, and manages to choke out, “I think I’ll leave this one to you, big brother,” before running out of the room. Jughead has never felt so betrayed in his life.

Jellybean raises her eyebrows at him, expectant. “Uh, well, you see,” Jughead starts, gesticulating wildly. When did it get so hot in here? “Veronica and I, we, um—”

Something seems to have registered to his sister, because she suddenly takes a step away from him, her lips twisting into a pained grimace. 

“Oh my God, forget it,” she says, covering her ears with both hands. “Just stop talking. I go to a public school, I know where this is headed.”

Jughead wants to die, wishes the Persian carpet underneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole. From the look Jellybean is giving him, she’s thinking the same thing. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, flails for a bit longer. Then he hurriedly adds, “Okay, goodnight,” before feeling the scene.

He finds Veronica waiting for him on the couch, cheeks still a little pink from the effort of reigning in her obvious amusement towards the situation. “I just want you to know that I hate you,” he says, falling down next to her.

“So you’ve said,” Veronica replies, a smile pulling at the ends of her lips. “Many times. But why do I get the feeling that it’s not true?” 

“No kissing while I’m still here!” Jellybean shouts from the guest room, her voice wafting down the hall and spilling into the living room. “I can hear you two flirting!”

The smile on Veronica’s face widens, and she turns to Jughead, arches a brow at him. “Well, you heard our guest,” she says, pushes herself to her feet, disappears into their room.

Jughead leans back against the cushions, throws an arm over his eyes, and groans.

—

He’s got work the next morning, so Veronica brings Jellybean to the New York Public Library and Bryant Park while Jughead finishes up his shift. The three of them end the day at Grand Central Station before heading back to the apartment so his sister can pack up her stuff.

“I just want you to know that I’ve loved having you here,” he tells her seriously, sitting on the end of the bed, watching her stuff souvenirs into her backpack. “But also, never do that to Mom again.”

“I got it the first time, geez,” Jellybean says. She looks distracted, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Hey, Jug,” she adds, straightening up. “I like Veronica. Don’t break her heart, okay?”

“Um, what?” Jughead says, positive he didn’t her hear properly. “What makes you think _I’m_ going to break _her_ heart?”

Jellybean rolls her eyes, like he’s being purposely obtuse. “She’s, like, super in love with you, Jug. You can’t tell me you don’t see it.”

He frowns, opens his mouth to tell his sister that, no, actually, he doesn’t see it. The thought had never even entered his head. But Jellybean beats him to it. “All I’m saying is that one day, you’re gonna have to make a choice,” she says, zips her bag closed. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

The two of them drop Jellybean off at Penn Station and walk her to her boarding gate, bombarding her with about a million reminders to be safe, to call when she gets back, to never visit them without explicit permission again.

“Gee thanks, Mom and Dad. It’s like I’ve never been on a bus before,” she quips, making her way over to where the bus is waiting. “I’ll see you soon, Jug! Remember what we talked about!” she calls out over her shoulder, before she disappears into the vehicle.

“God, I feel like we just dropped our kid off at college or something,” Veronica comments, waving at Jellybean one last time before the bus pulls out of the station. It’s probably just Jellybean’s earlier statement circling around in his brain that makes Jughead’s chest swell at her words, his heart growing three times its normal size.

“Let’s go home,” Veronica says, and the two of them walk back to the apartment, the rhythm of their steps somewhat jerky, but still in tandem with each other.


	3. brave new world

Two weeks before school starts up again, he receives an e-mail reminding him to resubmit an application for student housing.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, the sun high in the sky and the surrounding room bathed in light. He thinks of his jackets taking up space in the hall closet alongside Veronica’s winter coats, his toothbrush in the bathroom beside the brand of toothpaste that he likes.

Veronica’s in the next room, sprawled out on the couch, humming under her breath while she paints her nails. The melody drifts into his space, fills the air all around him. He deletes the message without a second thought.

Later on, Veronica wanders into the kitchen. “You look remarkably upbeat for someone whose summer vacation is about to end,” she informs him, sliding into the adjacent chair. “What’s the smile for?”

“You know I reserve all my smiles for you, Ronnie, my dear,” Jughead says. The undercurrent of sarcasm is drowned out by the fact that he’s still grinning like a loon. Despite herself, Veronica’s lips twitch slightly. “By the way, it’s your turn to do the dishes tonight.”

—

September finally comes around, and they’re officially sophomores. This makes Jughead think back to the beginning of their sophomore year of high school, the year Jason was killed and everything changed. The days of Veronica being the new girl, of illicit student-teacher affairs, of dark secrets and hot tubs, of Jughead hating Veronica and everything she stood for.

Four years later, Veronica is back in her home city, Archie’s playing music in California (where he assures Jughead that most of his professors are guys), Betty’s thriving, bright, finally confident in herself, and Jughead, well, Jughead definitely doesn’t hate Veronica anymore.

The two of them flit in and out of the apartment, catching spare bits of conversation as they go to and from their different classes. She walks him to his first lecture as a film student, kisses him outside the door before disappearing into the photography lab down the hall.

“Dude, is that your girlfriend?” Jake, one of his screenwriting classmates, asks him a few weeks later.

“Yes?” Jughead replies after a short pause, a hint of a question still lingering in his tone. He still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around the idea of Veronica Lodge as his _girlfriend_.

“Major props, man,” Jake says, clapping him on the shoulder in that dude-bro way Jughead never really got used to in high school. This guy would probably get along with Reggie. He certainly makes more movie references. “You guys been together long?”

“No,” Jughead says. Then he adds, “But it’s been a long time coming,” and he’s surprised by how much of it doesn’t feel like a lie.

—

“I may not have been completely honest about something,” Veronica says apropos of nothing. They’re standing around the kitchen counter, sharing a plate of scrambled eggs for dinner because neither of them had time to go grocery shopping in the frenzy of the last week.

“That’s always a great, non-anxiety-inducing way to start a conversation,” Jughead quips, his stomach churning. Being a writer means that he’s more creative when it comes to imagining possible scenarios, and they flash through his mind like a film played on fast-forward. “About what?”

He’s a little relieved when Veronica says, “About why I broke up with Archie,” because she could have very well said something along the lines of, _I’m actually married._ Or even worse, _I’m still in love with Archie._

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to respond, so he just says, “Oh,” and shoves more runny eggs into his mouth, giving her the space to continue.

“I mean,” Veronica starts, exhales slowly, like she’s trying to find the right words, “the long-distance thing was true. It was probably for the best. But the real reason I ended it was because of my mom.”

That’s new. Jughead straightens up and sends her a confused glance, his forehead creasing in thought. “Your mom?” he echoes.

“She and Mr. Andrews were getting pretty serious,” she explains, and this makes Jughead think of all the times he would come home from their dates, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been since Mrs. Andrews left. “I knew the only reason she wasn’t taking it further was because I was dating Archie, so I ended it.”

“Does your mom know?” Jughead asks her, and she shakes her head.

“You’re the first person I’ve told this to,” she admits, and there’s a flip somewhere in Jughead’s stomach for a completely different reason. In that moment, he wonders how Veronica could have ever thought that she was anything less than a good person. 

Then she shudders. “Ugh, I hate feeling like a cliché.”

“Because dating your ex-boyfriend’s best friend is totally not cliché at all,” Jughead intones, and Veronica giggles, tosses a spoonful of eggs at him. “Your life is just the pinnacle of originality.”

“You are the worst,” Veronica tells him with feeling. But she’s still smiling at him, open amusement in her gaze. “I never said I was above living a few television tropes,” she adds, and Jughead can’t help but laugh in agreement.

He had always thought that life in Riverdale was too much like a badly written television show to be real, complete with a murder mystery, a mansion with a cemetery in the backyard, and a few jocks thrown in for good measure.

Now he feels like he’s living in a Matthew McConaughey-inspired romantic comedy. The worst part of it all? He doesn’t mind one bit.

“Well, you know what they say about art imitating life,” he says, then he leans across the counter and kisses her.

—

The first time it happens, it’s almost an accident.

There’s a twenty minute window of time between when Jughead returns from his first class of the day, and Veronica leaves for hers. The second he enters the apartment, he finds Veronica waiting for him in the living room, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Tell me I’m amazing,” she singsongs, moving towards him, one arm hidden behind her back.

“I don’t give baseless compliments,” he replies automatically, and she swats him on the shoulder with her free hand. “Okay, okay, what are you so excited about?”

“These!” She brandishes a small white envelope at him, practically pushing it onto his chest.

He takes the envelope and opens it, pulls out a pair of tickets. “If this is another Broadway show, I think you should get one of your friends to come with you,” he says wryly. Veronica rolls her eyes, makes an impatient gesture for him to turn them around.

He flips the tickets over and reads the printed text, and his eyes widen almost comically. Because there’s no way Veronica managed to score tickets to Quentin Tarantino’s press conference at the Lincoln Center next month.

“How did you get these?” he asks her hoarsely, still unable to believe what he’s seeing. He had been talking about this press conference for _weeks_ , with Veronica being strangely distant every time he brought it up.

“One of Inez’s dad’s friends is in charge of the production,” Veronica tells him breezily, clearly pleased with herself. She takes a step forward, tilts his chin upwards with two of her fingers. “So, am I amazing or what?”

“I love—” Jughead starts, and then his brain catches up with him and the words die on his tongue. _You_ , is what he was supposed to say next, and he’s surprised by how easily he arrived at that conclusion, how natural it all feels. 

“I love them,” he says instead, his mind spinning at a million miles per second.

But Veronica is still holding onto him, close enough to kiss, and he swears he sees something flicker and dim in her dark eyes, something that almost reads like disappointment.

Which is, of course, when Archie walks in.

—

Archie says, “Um.”

Jughead says, “Archie. Fuck.”

Veronica says, “How did you get into our apartment?”

It’s the plural possessive pronoun that brings Archie back into reality from his shock-induced stupor. Or maybe it’s the fact that Veronica is wearing one of Jughead’s plaid shirts, a belt tied around her waist like a dress.

“The door was unlocked, I thought—wait, what do you mean _your_ apartment?” Archie demands, directing the question at Jughead, who is still staring at him, wide-eyed and rooted to the spot.

Veronica breaks the resulting silence first. “Oh, look at the time, I’ve got class,” she says, stepping around the two boys and edging towards the door. “I’ll see you later,” she calls out over her shoulder as she all but flees the scene.

Once they’re alone, Jughead turns to face Archie, still unable to get his mouth to form coherent sentences. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t you think I should be the one asking questions?” Archie answers back, the lines on his forehead deepening as he frowns. “I was in Chicago for the long weekend and thought I’d stop over here to see you,” he says. “I went to your dorm, and they told me you changed your address. I figured it was a mistake, because I was sure you’d have told me about moving to an apartment in SoHo.”

“Arch, I was gonna tell you—” Jughead tries to explain.

“When?” Archie interrupts him, his expression so hostile that by all rights he should be breathing fire. “When, Jughead, were you planning to tell me that you and Veronica… God, does Betty know about this?”

Jughead says nothing, and Archie runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “How long has this been going on?”

“I ran into her two months after she transferred here,” Jughead replies, feeling all the while like he’s digging himself deeper and deeper into a grave. “It just sort of happened.”

He can see the gears in Archie’s brain spring back to life, spinning around and around as his words settle in. “Veronica,” he begins slowly, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak, “moved here nine months ago.”

Jughead counts to ten, exhales through his teeth. More than a dozen images of him and Veronica over the last seven months run through his head. “I know.”

Archie laughs bitterly, shakes his head in disbelief. He looks well and truly pissed off. “Wow.”

“But the two of you, you’re not—” Jughead starts, still trying to find a way to explain himself out of this mess, standing in the apartment where he lives with the first real girlfriend Archie’s ever had. “You don’t even like her anymore.”

“She’s my ex-girlfriend, Jughead,” Archie tells him sharply, like he needs any reminding. “It’s just the principle of it. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

Jughead nods, swallows tightly. “Yeah.” 

With one last glare, Archie yanks the front door open and disappears down the hall.

—

When Veronica returns a few hours later, giving him a sheepish glance as she shuffles into the kitchen, Jughead is sitting at the dining table, staring into space.

She settles down in the seat next to him, folds her legs together. “How much trouble are we in?”

“Well, he’s not happy,” he says, and it’s a total fucking understatement. Veronica must be able to tell from the expression on his face, because she sighs morosely. “Does Betty know?”

“She knows,” Veronica supplies instantly, nodding. The two of them FaceTime for hours at least once a week. It’s the only time Jughead ever spends in the guest room. “She knows that you live here, but I didn’t, um…”

“You didn’t tell her about us,” he finishes for her, and Veronica shakes her head, looking a little guilty.

They fall into silence. The sky outside is turning dark, long shadows moving across the walls. It all suddenly feels like a dream, like their bubble has finally been pierced, and reality is moving back in to stake its claim.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” Veronica asks him quietly.

“Maybe,” Jughead says, shrugs helplessly. Then he lifts his eyes to meet hers. “Is it wrong that I don’t really care right now?”

“No,” Veronica says, the ghost of a smile lighting up her features. She reaches out for his hand, and he intertwines their fingers together. “No, it’s not wrong.”

—

Veronica’s mom calls her the week before Halloween to tell her that she and Mr. Andrews are getting married.

The phone call comes in the middle of an argument regarding their Halloween costumes. Veronica wants them to go as Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak, with Jughead protesting that no one will know who he is.

Naturally, Jughead wants them to go as Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace, with Veronica informing him that there’s no way she’s going to walk around the city with blood dripping from her nose.

“They don’t even end up together,” she protests, scrolling through the film’s synopsis on her phone. “It’s not a couple costume unless the characters are an actual couple.”

“Doesn’t Holly spend a majority of the movie trying to marry another guy for his money?” Jughead counters, and Veronica throws a pillow at him. “I knew you were only with me for my intellect.”

“No, it’s because of your unbelievable sense of modesty,” Veronica drawls, and then the phone in her hand starts to ring. “Oh, it’s my mom. I better take this,” she says, pushing herself from the bed and hurrying out into the living room.

Twenty minutes later, Veronica returns with a weird expression on her face. She almost seems dazed, shell-shocked.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Jughead asks her, moving to sit up. “Is something wrong with your mom?”

“No, no, my mom’s fine,” Veronica assures him, still looking like she witnessed an alien invasion. “She just informed me that she’s marrying Archie’s dad, but otherwise, she’s totally fine,” she says, and his mouth drops open in shock.

From what he’s able to gather, the whole thing is set out to be a relatively quick affair. Neither of the parents want all the pomp and circumstance of a real wedding, just a civil ceremony at the courthouse done over Thanksgiving weekend, followed by a reception at the Pembrooke.

“I can’t believe she doesn’t even want a dress,” Veronica gripes one night, two weeks after her mom drops the news. “Who gets married in _jeans_?” she goes on, saying the word like it’s personally offended her.

They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Jughead finishing up a paper on Faust while Veronica flicks through the outtakes of her latest project. He kind of likes the way they drift into their own worlds sometimes, seamlessly coexisting in place of how forced and stilted their interactions used to be.

“Is that all you’re worried about?” he asks her, looking up from his laptop and searching her face for any signs of distress.

She instantly understands what he’s trying to do. In some way, they’ve become every inch that cliché couple (and the term still seems so _wrong_ when it’s set against them) that can somehow communicate telepathically. 

He and Betty had been pretty proficient at communicating via eyebrow, but he and Veronica have entire conversations based around just one _glance_. It’s pretty unnerving.

Veronica sighs, sets her camera down on the coffee table in front of them. “I _was_ pissed at my mom for a while,” she admits. “But then I realized, what good would that do? It just made us both miserable. Now, well, at least Mr. Andrews makes her happy.”

“Mr. Andrews is great,” he says sincerely, the words reminding him of their conversation on that summer night three years ago, back when he wanted to kiss Veronica but couldn’t.

“I guess he—” Then Veronica pauses and makes a face. “Wait. Does this mean I have to call him Fred now?”

“I think you should be more weirded out by the fact that Archie’s going to be your stepbrother,” Jughead points out. The mention of Archie’s name sends a brief silence through the room, a heaviness that both of them try to ignore.

“God,” Veronica says, leaning forward and plucking her camera off the table. “When I said I wished my life was like _Gossip Girl_ , this isn’t exactly what I meant.”

—

It’s strange being back in Riverdale after almost a year, but what strikes him as even more surreal is living in any space without Veronica, after having grown so accustomed to her presence in all the months they’ve been together.

His mom seems happy to see him, rushing into the kitchen to make dinner as soon as he walks through the door, and Jellybean pounces on him the second she gets back from school, telling him about something that had happened in one of her classes.

“And then, Susie actually had the guts to—wait,” she says, pauses mid-rant. She looks around their empty living room, notices his bag alone in the corner. “Where’s Veronica?” she asks him, raising her voice slightly. “Are you going to sleep in separate rooms while you’re here?”

From the kitchen, there’s the distinct sound of a plate clattering to the ground, and Jughead shuts his eyes, wills for the ground underneath him to open up. For the most part, Jellybean just looks unbearably smug.

The wedding itself is a small affair, limited to immediate family members only, so he doesn’t see Veronica again until the reception. He tells himself that he’s not trying to avoid Archie or Betty, but he still doesn’t exactly make his presence known as he slips into the Pembrooke, feeling awkward in an old suit.

The first person he sees is Polly, standing by the fireplace with her two kids. Mrs. Cooper is playing with Jason while Lizzie sleeps, her head on her mom’s shoulder. It had come as a surprise to everyone but Nana Rose when Polly did give birth to twins, and it was only by promising Cheryl unlimited (read: frequent and unannounced) visits did Polly get away without naming her daughter Cheryl Jr.

He finds Veronica standing in the middle of the room, looking every bit as cinematic and eye-catching as she usually does. She’s talking to Principal Weatherbee, her smile wide and polite, but he can tell that she’s distracted, can see her glancing around the space, searching for him.

The thing is, being back in Riverdale, surrounded by all the people he’d grown up with, it suddenly reminds him of all the ways they don’t fit, reminds him how different they really are. He meets Archie’s gaze from across the room, notices the open hostility in his eyes, and stays back.

It’s while he’s sitting on a stool next to the open bar, pathetically nursing a bottle of beer, that Betty finally catches up to him.

“Hi, Jug,” she says, coming out of nowhere to slide into the chair across him, and Jughead most definitely does not let out an unmanly shriek of surprise when she appears.

“Betty,” he greets, his eyes darting around the room like a fugitive trying to plan his escape. “How did you—it’s not what it looks like,” he says, immediately going on the defensive. He sounds like a crazy person.

But Betty, bless her soul, just laughs at him, fond, the way she used to when they were still together. “Jughead, relax,” she says. “I’m not mad at either of you.”

This makes Jughead stop in his tracks. “You’re not?”

“Jug,” Betty says again, smiles warmly. She puts a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up at her. “You and I broke up for a reason. We were good, yeah, but now I just want you to be happy. I want you _both_ to be happy,” she amends, and Jughead feels his insides swell with emotion.

“But—but Archie,” Jughead stammers, his gaze moving over to the other side of the room where Archie is standing next to his dad, pretending not to stare at them. “He hates me.”

Betty follows the line of his sight and shakes her head. “Archie’s an idiot, we all know that.” Despite himself, Jughead starts to smile. “He’s just surprised, that’s all. He’ll get over it. He wants you both to be happy, even if it doesn’t seem that way.”

He thinks of the cold, outright fury twisting into Archie’s expression and wants to tell Betty that he doesn’t see that happening. But over the noise of the crowd, he hears a toddler start to wail, followed by a sharp, telltale, “Elizabeth!” floating towards them.

Betty sighs, turns around and sees her mom struggling with the crying Lizzie. “I gotta go,” she tells Jughead ruefully. “Mom needs help. Lizzie doesn’t like her very much.”

“I see she takes after her namesake, then,” Jughead returns, and Betty lets out a peal of laughter, something that causes a bout of nostalgia to rush through him.

“We’ll catch up later, okay?” she tells him, pushing herself off the stool. “It was great seeing you,” she adds sincerely, before disappearing into the crowd.

No less than fifteen seconds pass before someone else comes to take Betty’s vacated seat.

“Dude,” Reggie says, eyeing him with something that almost reads like disappointment. “Bro, what the fuck?”

“Ah, Reggie,” Jughead says dryly. “I see a year at Duke has done nothing to improve your vocabulary.”

The two of them had managed to establish some kind of rapport over the years, once Jughead realized that Reggie wasn’t as stereotypical as he’d initially thought. He used to see Riverdale as this cookie-cutter town, a place where everyone could be easily filed away into boxes.

But he’s learned that reality isn’t always as simple as it is in the movies, learned it somewhere in between the first time he walked into Pop’s and met the raven-haired new girl and the way she had squeezed his hand before they separated for their different homes two days ago.

Reggie remains unaffected. “You date the prettiest girl in school, and then you let her go,” he says, ticking off points on his fingers, like he’s enumerating all the ways Jughead has ruined his life. “Then you get with the hottest girl in all of New York, and now you’re letting Andrews walk all over you.”

“Does everyone here know everything?” Jughead groans, runs a hand down his face. The last year in New York had really dulled his senses to the nuances of a small town. In particular, the way no one can keep their fucking mouths shut about anything.

“Pretty much,” Reggie replies, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Great,” Jughead mutters under his breath. He sighs, meets Reggie’s unimpressed glance. “Archie’s my best friend,” he says, but even that’s starting to sound like a cheap cop-out.

Reggie just rolls his eyes. “Andrews will get over it,” he says. How do people seem so _certain_ about things? He wonders if maybe he doesn’t know Archie as well as he thinks he does. “What you will not get over, is letting this ruin your relationship with Veronica.”

“When the hell did you get so smart?” Jughead blurts out, apparently having lost all sense of a brain-to-mouth filter.

“Psychology major, bro,” Reggie says by way of explanation. He gets to his feet, claps Jughead on the shoulder with enough force to knock him off the chair. “Come on, Edward Scissorhands,” he adds, just for old time’s sake. “Don’t be such a pussy for once.”

The second Reggie leaves, Kevin materializes on his empty chair, like the hologram of a gay, very pissed off, sweater vest-wearing Princess Leia.

“Do I need to say it?” he asks Jughead, throwing his hands in the air. “Do. I. Even. Need. To. Say. It.”

“No,” Jughead immediately grits out, his teeth clenching together. He can see where this is going.

“Good,” Kevin says. He stands, puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he warns him, then he spins on his heels and wanders off in the opposite direction, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter as he does.

Ten minutes pass, and then Cheryl Blossom is sitting in front of him, hands clasped together on top of her crossed legs, surveying him the way a therapist would their patient.

“What is this?” he demands, slowly losing patience. “Musical chairs?”

“Look, when I first found out about you and Veronica, I was understandably surprised at how an heiress much like myself could settle down with a drifter like you,” Cheryl says immediately, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Gee thanks,” Jughead says, sarcastic. “To think I was just starting to warm up to you.”

She lets out an annoyed huff. “Allow me to finish,” she says. “I _was_ about to say that after I saw you together, well, it defied all logic and the use of a two-bedroom apartment in New York, but the two of you are good together, Jughead.”

This might be the first time he’s ever heard Cheryl say his name out loud. “What are you trying to say?” he asks her, slightly wary.

“I’m saying, you suspenders-wearing loner, that you’ve got a good thing going with Veronica. Don’t fuck it up,” she tells him. Then she hops off the stool, blows him a kiss over her shoulder, and sashays back into the crowd.

“She’s right,” Archie’s voice says from behind him.

Jughead jumps about an inch off his seat, and then Archie himself is moving over and sitting down. “I, uh, I caught the tail end of your conversation,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “She’s right, Jug. You and Ronnie, you guys are good together.”

“I—she wasn’t part of my plan, Arch,” Jughead tells him, feeling a million pounds lighter. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that, man.”

“I know,” Archie says straightaway, still looking a little embarrassed. “I know that. I’m sorry for the way I reacted. I guess I was just surprised.”

“You’re my brother, Archie,” Jughead says, and it suddenly dawns on him what Jellybean had been trying to tell him all those months ago. His sister deserves a degree in decoding boy feelings. “But I don’t want to have to choose you over her.”

Archie just shakes his head. “Me and Veronica…it’s over. She’s a great friend and I love her, but not in that way.” Then he huffs out a laugh, suddenly amused by something. “Not in the way you clearly do.”

Jughead exhales, long and slow. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out as a sigh. He lifts his eyes, catches Archie’s glance. “Fucking weird, right?”

“The weirdest,” Archie agrees, empathetic, and the two of them fall into laughter.

The moment is shattered by the clinking of a spoon against a champagne glass, and then Cheryl’s voice drifts through the room. 

“Attention, everyone!” she calls out. “While it’s been fun celebrating such a _momentous_ occasion, I say that it’s high time we leave the adults to it and head on over to Thorn Hill for a little after-party.”

Her announcement is met with a lot of cheers and howls from a majority of the football team. Especially from Moose, who is now out and proud. Go figure.

“Thank you, Cheryl,” Mr. Andrews says, trading confused looks with his new wife. “Even if you told us that you were going to make a speech in our honor.” Cheryl just shrugs in reply.

Archie turns back to Jughead, raises his eyebrows knowingly, grins. “Sounds like fun,” he says, and Jughead lets out a groan.

—

The den of Thorn Hill is appropriately eerie, what with its leather couches, green lighting, and the stuffed animals hanging from the walls. Jughead hadn’t been present the last time Cheryl had thrown an after-party in here, and he’s starting to think that maybe it was for the best. He’s officially creeped out.

They’re sitting around a mahogany coffee table in the middle of the room, and Archie’s steady presence by his side paired with Betty’s supportive smiles are cold comfort with the way Veronica is staring at him, her eyes dark and her expression questioning and accusing all at once, shooting him glances from across the space.

But he’s not going to get into that here, not in a public setting, in Cheryl fucking Blossom’s mansion, with the Red Queen herself standing at the helm, holding an empty wine bottle in her hand and telling them all that they’re about to kick it old school.

“Who wants to start?” Cheryl offers, purses her lips as she scans the surrounding crowd clustered around her. “My vote is for the New York City socialite to have a go in the Closet of Love.”

Twenty heads immediately turn to look at Veronica, and she clears her throat, shifts in her seat before folding her arms defiantly over her chest. “I don’t think so,” she says, scowling at Cheryl.

“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t talking to you,” Cheryl returns smoothly, and her eyes land on Jughead. “I was actually referring to the _other_ New York City socialite.” Reggie sniggers in response.

Before he can protest, Cheryl sets the bottle down and spins it, and he swears he can feel every second that passes as the bottle grinds to a halt. Like a team of synchronized swimmers, almost everyone in the room tilts forward the second it stops, eager to see who the bottle is pointing at.

It’s pointing at Betty.

He meets her panicked stare with his own, and for a moment, he can’t help but think that at one point in his life, there was nothing he would have wanted more than to spend seven minutes in a closet alone with her.

But now, all he can think of is how it’s the wrong girl, when the right one is her raven-haired best friend sitting next to her, facial features carefully schooled into an indifferent mask.

There’s an awkward silence that spreads throughout the room like wildfire, and no one dares to move. That is until Cheryl, quite literally, takes three steps forward and plucks the bottle off the table, throws it on Veronica’s lap.

“Well, it seems as if the fates have spoken,” Cheryl says blithely, tossing her hair back, seemingly oblivious to the stunned group of people in front of her. “Jughead and Veronica, please make your way into the closet.”

For a Closet of Love, it’s pretty dim and crammed with old boxes, and Jughead stands as far away from Veronica as the space will possibly allow him to. The irony of this being the same place where Archie and Veronica hooked up all those years ago isn’t lost on him, either.

“So,” Veronica begins casually, like she’s discussing the weather. “You gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me the whole day? Because contrary to popular belief, I can’t actually read your mind.”

“Being back here, it’s just…” He trails off, grinds his teeth in frustration. “You’re _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ ,” he tells her. “I’m _In Cold Blood_. How the hell are we supposed to work?”

“They’re both written by Truman Capote, and who cares, Jughead?” she demands, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Those stories aren’t real. You can’t keep living in this fantasy world of books and movies all the time. Real life doesn’t work that way. You and me, that’s what’s real.”

He doesn’t immediately respond and she sighs, all the fight draining out of her. “If this is about Archie, I get it,” she says, looking past his right ear. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “I never had any real friends before Riverdale, and I know how much he’s done for you. If you want to end this—”

“No,” Jughead cuts in, before it’s too late. He can practically hear his sister screaming at him from inside his head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, actually,” he says, the words tripping on his tongue in their haste to get out.

“Cool,” Veronica says, soft. But she’s smiling, beaming at him brighter and more radiant than anything he’s ever seen, and it makes him wish that she had brought her camera with her, just so he can capture this moment to keep forever. “I love you, too. Even though you’ve been acting like a total idiot the whole day.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” he tries to protest, but even that falls flat. 

“You forced _Cheryl Blossom_ to intervene,” Veronica tells him, her tone highlighting the severity of the situation. He winces. Yeah, that is pretty bad. “Now, I’m gonna have to chalk this big romantic moment in my life up to her.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure that she’s only doing it so you’ll help her with Archie,” Jughead replies, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, one so wide that it feels like it’ll stay this way permanently.

“God, the people in this town,” Veronica comments with a laugh, shaking her head fondly.

He finally kisses her, covers her mouth with his mouth, tangles his fingers in her hair, and it suddenly occurs to him, as he stands in a cramped closet with his best friend’s ex-girlfriend, with his ex-girlfriend’s best friend, with Veronica fucking Lodge, that she may just be the most right thing he’s ever had.

She breaks away first, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. “Let’s go home,” she says, threads their fingers together.

Home. It’s a word that had eluded him for so long, a place he was sure would forever exist solely within the confines of his books, a borrowed couch or an air mattress in someone else’s bedroom, rather than any permanent residence.

But now, he thinks that maybe home is wherever he’s with Veronica Lodge, and as sappy as that sounds, he really wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jughead grins, ducks down to kiss her again. “Yeah, let’s.”


End file.
